Dark Passage (A Terrifying Horror Thriller)

Chapter 1

Five-year-old Tyson Barrett sat on a plastic covered couch, watching a plastic covered TV, in a plastic covered house. He was a smart boy. Smart enough to know the show he was watching was called Looney Tunes and perhaps even smarter still because he knew that Bugs Bunny was about to get the better of that dim-witted Elmer Fudd again. Elmer had made the silly mistake of taking a nap in the woods and a big billowing dream cloud was floating serenely above his head. Bugs saw the cloud and crawled into it with a giant can of paint in his hand.

Nightmare paint.

He was going to turn the pudgy hunter’s nice dreams into awful ugly dreams filled with monsters with claws and long pointed teeth. Of course none of this had happened yet. But he knew it would. He’d seen this episode three times already.

Tyson shifted and the plastic covered couch let out a groan, one that sounded an awful lot like the groan in his tummy. His usual breakfast was waiting for him in the fridge. His mother had prepared it before leaving to take care of Mr. Tanner for the day. Mr. Tanner, she’d told him, had something called cancer. In six months he would be dead. She’d taken him by the shoulders and told him that most important of all, the disease eating away at Mr. Tanner’s body was not contagious. When Mr. Tanner died, so too would the disease.

Tyson’s father had also gone to work, but even when he was home he was something of a ghost, floating from room to room, like Casper. Invisible and powerless.

The boy was almost halfway to the kitchen when he stopped and skittered to the wall, pressing his back against the cold wood paneling. There were rules about where you could and couldn’t walk in the house, and the middle of the living room was a big no-no. He had a vague idea that it had something to do with the germs Mommy was always talking about.

Hugging the wall, Tyson slowly made his way to the fridge where his breakfast waited, covered three times over with Saran Wrap: a piece of boiled ham, cold bread, and a glass of grapefruit juice. The taste of all three was so awful that he had once thrown them into the trash. Stuffed them right to the bottom so she wouldn’t know what he had done. But somehow she knew, the way she knew lots of things. When she was through with him, he’d never done it again.

Maybe one day when you have children of your own, you’ll understand how much I love you, she’d told him. But before he could promise he would never do it again, the pain had made the world go black.

After he’d finished eating and set his dishes aside to be sterilized, Tyson returned—hugging the wall like a good boy—to the living room. His cartoon was over and in its place was a boring-looking show where a man in a gray suit was talking about how some people called the Russians were doing bad things in a country called Afghanistan.

The smell of pine trees hit him and pulled his attention toward the impossibly long hallway and the room nestled at the end of it. The room that was locked and OFF LIMITS. The one he was never to enter under any circumstance. The room that would make Mommy very upset if she ever saw him go inside. The room where the monster lived.

She kept the key in the top drawer of her dresser and must have thought that was a secret enough place that he’d never find it. But Tyson had found it, by accident. He was looking for his Han Solo and Chewbacca action figures. The ones she’d taken away to punish him for walking in the middle of the living room. When he had started crying, she’d torn Han’s left arm off, just to let him know how serious she was.

The tears had stopped.

He’d opened the drawer and although he hadn’t found a single sign of Han or Chewy, he did find a key. A long, thin, old looking metal key with two teeth and a large gap that looked an awful lot like the gap in Goofy’s smile.

The smell of pine trees became stronger. A smell similar to when Mommy cleaned the kitchen floor, but somehow different. The smell was coming from that room, and it was as though a whole forest was growing in there. He imagined opening the door and finding himself at the base of hundred-foot trees that sprawled through the ceiling and stretched up into the clouds. He wondered what he might find when he climbed to the top.

But Tyson knew well enough there weren’t really hundred-foot trees growing in that room. Because that was where the monster lived. His mother would tell him about it every night as she put him to bed. How she had to keep the door locked tight because the creature was always scratching to get out. How his claws were long and sharp, and she swore that on the quietest nights, if he held his breath, he might just hear nails scrapping against the door.

Does he eat little boys? Tyson had asked.

Oh yes.

Would he eat me?

Certainly.

And you would let him?

Boys who listen to their mothers have nothing to worry about. Boys who misbehave... well, that’s another story.

Have you seen him?

Many times.

Tyson’s mouth fell open. What does he look like?

His mother’s face darkened. I’ll tell you. He has smooth skin like worn leather and eyes the deepest black you’ve ever seen. His arms are spindly but strong, and he uses the claws at the end of them to drag himself along the floor.

His legs?

He doesn’t have any. Not the way you and I have legs. All he has is a short fleshy tail.

He cowered beneath the covers. No more, please.

But I haven’t told you about his teeth yet. Her eyes were shining.

Tyson left the couch, shivering at the memory. He started toward his mother’s room and the temptation of the hidden key but stopped dead. He blinked long and hard, more than once just to be sure he wasn’t seeing things.

The door at the end of the hallway was open. Not much more than a sliver, but it was open and the boy was suddenly gripped with fear. 

He watched for a long time, but the door didn’t move. Not even a little bit. It looked like there was something on the floor in front of it, two objects lying just inside the crack. He took a step closer to get a better look. Then another.

From here, those shapes looked an awful lot like Han and Chewy. Maybe there wasn’t a monster in that room after all. Maybe this was where his mother kept all the toys she’d taken from him. Maybe it was all make believe, so he wouldn’t go inside and find all of his favorite things.

Tyson tiptoed down the hallway, feeling the rough carpet biting into the balls of his feet like hundreds of little knives. He made sure to watch the door. Any sign of movement, he told himself, even the slightest sway, and he would run.

The wooden door was tall and brown, with chips of paint peeling off it. The knob was metallic and dull; not polished to a brilliant shine the way the rest of the house seemed to shine.

Suddenly the door moved and Tyson’s whole body froze. Icy fingers crawled up his spine, leaving his hands cold and tingly. The breath caught in his throat and now he was sucking in air. Lungful after lungful and yet it still didn’t quite feel like enough. Dangling around his neck from a piece of frayed packing rope was his asthma pump. Tyson brought it to his lips, depressed the button and all at once his face began to relax.

The door before him stood motionless. But by now he’d already made up his mind. He wasn’t going in.

He reached out to shut the door and then stopped himself.

Han and Chewy weren’t there anymore. But what if they were inside, waiting to be rescued? The thought was almost too much to ignore and the more he entertained the possibility, the more sense it seemed to make. And with that, he placed his little hand against the peeling paint and pushed at the door until it creaked open.

Inside, the monster stirred.

Chapter 2

Present Day

Self-righteous prick. That was thirty-eight-year-old Tyson Barrett’s first impression upon shaking Dr. Charles Stevens' hand; a limp and pale thing that Stevens had left dangling between them like a length of loose rope. Even the walls of his spacious office made the man look like a name-dropping bore. A diploma from Harvard Medical School. Behind Stevens, a picture of him and Bill Clinton shaking hands. Another with Benjamin Netanyahu.

Tyson wished he could say he didn’t care what Stevens thought of him. Wished he could even say he didn’t care if he made it through what was turning out to be a bitch of a screening process. He had a hard time identifying with prissy little men like Charles Stevens, and as much as he hated being made to feel somehow inferior, he knew he needed the man. Far more than the man needed him.

The reason was simple. Tyson hadn’t copped a full night’s sleep in nearly six months. This study was his last hope. He was desperate. As much as he hated the word, Tyson Barrett was desperate with a capital D.

Perhaps it was that desperation that was making him sweat so much—his navy blue shirt had dark patches at the armpits and a long, wide son of a bitch running down his back.

Stevens motioned to the chair on the other side of his desk and Tyson sat down, feeling a long winding creak of tension crawl up from the base of his spine.

As you've no doubt gathered by now, I’m the coordinator here at the facility. We’re conducting phase II clinical trials on Noxil for Sino-Meck.

That self-important look was back on Stevens' face and Tyson did everything he could to smile and nod.

Phase II is where we take people like yourself, who are suffering symptoms of anxiety, and see what effect the drug—

Nightmares. I mean... this will get rid of my nightmares, right?

Noxil is designed to treat PTSD.

PTSD?

Stevens smirked the way a lord might smirk at a simple minded peasant. Of course. I forgot. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder.

But it’ll cure my nightmares?

A momentary look of annoyance crossed Stevens' face before vanishing. That’s what we’re hoping for. Stevens paused and Tyson couldn’t help but notice the doctor scanning his face, noting the heavy purple bags under his eyes.

You did read the study requirements, I assume, Stevens said casually.

Tyson was pulling at the cuff of his shirt, trying to give his armpits a bit of breathing room. Sure.

Then I’m assuming you saw that we’re looking for subjects between the ages of eighteen and thirty-seven. It says here that you just celebrated your thirty-eighth birthday.

I can tell you it wasn’t much of a celebration. Tyson was trying to smile but wasn’t having much success.

Stevens stood. I’m so sorry.

Tyson rose to his feet in a single stiff motion. Sorry?

You no longer qualify.

But my birthday was less than a week ago. Please.

Stevens began moving for the door and Tyson stood in his way. Doctor, I’m begging you. I’m at the tail end here. My life’s a wreck. If I don’t get this study... Tears welled up in Tyson’s puffy eyes. He looked down and saw his hands clamped around Stevens' shoulders. He removed them one at a time and straightened the man’s lab coat. I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in months. Tyson could see in the doctor’s eyes how much he loved that sliver of power, but for Tyson things had transcended mere ego.

This would be a major infraction, Stevens began.

Tyson wiped at his eyes with the palms of his hands. I won’t tell a soul, I swear.

Slowly, Stevens returned to his chair and eased back into it. There is something I’m legally obliged to tell you.

Tyson raised his eyebrows. Oh no, he thought, feeling that glimmer of hope inching from his grasp again. They know I’ve lied on my application, and all that begging didn’t accomplish anything more than making Stevens feel like some big shot.

There is some red tape Sino-Meck is trying to overcome with the government. A formality at most, I assure you.

I’m not sure I follow.

Final approval from the FDA and our local IRB hasn’t arrived yet. You see, most drugs have some pretty nasty side effects. I’m sure you’ve seen some of the commercials they’re putting on television these days.

Christ, who hasn’t? Tyson tried to laugh, but it sounded stilted and forced.

Stevens was examining something on the nail of his index finger. You tamper with the body’s chemistry and side effects tend to occur. At the end of the day, what the IRB and our friends at the FDA have to consider is whether the benefits of a given drug outweigh its harmful effects. It’s a pretty simple equation really.

Yeah, I’m sure it is. I think I understand what you’re saying. If I start taking Noxil, I may grow a pair of tits or my balls might swell to the size of grapefruits, right?

Stevens smiled, this time genuinely and Tyson wondered whether his face was going to crack.

No, our problem is quite different. You see, Noxil has no side effects.

Tyson’s back straightened against the chair. No side effects? Is that possible? Not even cotton mouth, profuse sweating, nausea... heart palpitations?

You seem to know your drugs, Mr. Barrett.

Tyson’s eyes flickered with momentary guilt. He had let his guard down and he was angry at himself for doing it. One more missed step and he was out.

It is hard to believe, I agree, and this is precisely why the FDA is dragging its feet. We’ve been given a conditional green light to proceed, but we’ve been instructed to inform all potential patients that the study’s final approval is still pending.

Tyson nodded understanding.

Now, there are a few things about your medical form we need to go over.

The knot of tension was creeping back into Tyson’s neck.

You say here, Stevens began, that you’re not on any other prescription medication.

That’s right, Tyson said, feeling the lie roll off his tongue with surprising ease.

And no pre-existing medical conditions?

Clean as a whistle. Tyson could feel the asthma pump in his jeans pocket, pushing against his leg; for a panicked moment, he was sure Stevens could see it.

Here’s the problem: when we tell the FDA there are no side effects that we know of, it’s implied the patients aren’t on any other medication. If the patients are, it muddles our results and puts the patients... at risk. In some extreme cases it can cause the drug to have some... unintended and unexplainable side effects. Stevens did not meet his eyes as he cleared his throat and continued. In others, mixing has been known to cause death. You understand, of course.

Tyson was doing his best not to think about how the medicine cabinet in his bathroom was filled to the brim with enough meds to keep an entire family in tip-top shape for a year.

Have you ever participated in a clinical trial before, Mr. Barrett?

Never. This time he was telling the truth.

You seem like a very honest person. It’s not people like you we’re trying to screen for really. Stevens leaned in. It’s the serial drug testers. They’re a growing problem in the industry and something we’ve been battling for years.

Tyson’s face registered confusion.

Serial drug testers. Drug Cowboys. They join as many studies as they can, falsifying and tailoring their medical histories to fit whatever they feel the researcher is looking for. There’s a lot of money to be made.

I can see how that’s a problem.

An enormous problem, but enough about that. I need to understand a little more about your nightmares before we proceed.

Tyson swallowed and his throat made an audible clicking noise.

Kinda hard to say. I mean, I don’t remember all that much. It’s more sensations really.

Oh, and how would you describe these sensations?

Tyson looked at Stevens and the hazy sleepy feeling he’d carried around with him every day for the past six months was suddenly gone.

Terror. I mean, whenever I let myself fall asleep, I wake up screaming. I’m not kidding. So loud my voice gets hoarse and I can’t speak for days. Something’s inside the room with me, that’s all I really know for sure. I can smell it and hear it, shambling along the floor. I’ve never seen it, but every other sense tells me it’s there. Tyson took a deep breath and looked away.

Is that all?

Tyson’s hands were in his lap, clasped together so hard his fingers had gone bone white. No, there’s something else. Tyson shifted in the tiny plastic chair and it creaked loudly. Flies. My dreams are filled with them. Thousands, maybe millions, and they’re buzzing around me, trying to get into my mouth, crawling into my ears and up my nostrils. And then the flies are gone and there’s something... someone in the room with me. It looks fuzzy, like when the projector guy at the movies falls asleep and everything goes out of whack. Somehow I know I shouldn’t move. It’s the movement he senses. Air displacement, thermal variations. CSI stuff. I’m not sure, but he can feel you. Even when every ounce of light’s been sucked clean out of a room he knows where you are. Tyson’s heart was hammering and he unsnapped the top button of his shirt. He wasn’t getting enough air. He could feel his lungs contracting violently, trying to pull in precious oxygen. His hand started for the inhaler and he stopped himself. Physically stopped his hand. Thick threads of sweat streamed down his face.

Mr. Barrett? Are you all right? Stevens' voice was barren. Stephen Hawking and his robotic voice box

might have sounded more compassionate.

Tyson’s breathing slowed. He could feel his control inching back. A hint of color was returning to his otherwise opaque and tired complexion.

Stevens was looking at him intently now. A mythological dream, interesting.

I’m sorry?

What you’re describing sounds like Ahriman.

Still reeling, Tyson didn’t have the faintest idea what Stevens was going on about.

A myth, sometimes used in psychological profiling. Ahriman was a demon the ancient Persians believed entered our world in the form of a fly.

Oh great.

Have you ever considered any of the several therapeutic avenues other than medication?

You name it, I’ve tried it: talk therapy, group therapy, meditation, biofeedback, hypnosis, acupuncture, cognitive behavioral therapy.

If Stevens could sense the lie he didn’t show it. He stood up, straightened his white lab coat and thrust out that limp biscuit he called a hand. I would like to congratulate you, Mr. Barrett. For now we’ll overlook that little issue with your age. You’ve passed the screening. Welcome aboard.

Tyson stood and took Stevens' hand, a beaming smile on his face. He couldn’t help feeling like a man in a long dark tunnel who has finally spotted a faint glimmer of light up ahead.

● ● ●

Tyson found the cot that would be his for the next hour. He was to take his introductory sample of Noxil and then record his initial reaction. Tyson had just sat down when he spotted the man in the bunk next to him.

The man had his back propped against the wall and a weathered cowboy hat slung over his face. One of the nurses was hunched over him, attempting to take a blood sample from his arm. She didn’t appear to be having much luck.

He raised his hat with his free hand. Watch my veins, honey, he mumbled. They tend to roll.

Tyson caught the look of annoyance flash across her face.

Looks like they found another guinea pig, the man said and burst into phlegmy laughter. His body gyrated wildly as though this were the funniest joke he’d ever heard and the nurse, now red faced and looking like she’d just about had enough, threw her hands into the air and stormed off.

His eyes followed the curve of her buttocks as she left. Hell, we don’t need her. The way she was poking and prodding you’d think she was takin’ me to the prom.

The hand he held out was stubby and well manicured. The man hadn’t worked a day in his life. Vance Fowler. Call me Vance.

Tyson reciprocated. Tyson.

I feel like I’ve seen you before. Out on the circuit maybe? Were you at Flopoxia in Houston last month?

Flopox—

Hmm, or was it Xanadin back in January? He seemed to be talking to himself now.

Tyson straightened. This is my first clinical trial, if that’s what you mean.

Hell’s bells, this is— Vance said, counting his fingers now, my thirty-fifth. No, thirty-sixth. So hard to keep track. I’m telling you, after the first dozen it’s all a blur.

So you’re not here for nightmares?

Nightmares? Vance let out a spastic burst of laughter. Only nightmare I have is about the check bouncing before I can cash it. Apparently they’re paying 2k for this beaut. Most I’ve ever made on any clini is 10k, but that was a real whore down in Colorado. Had a tube stuck up my ass the size of a vacuum hose for nearly a week. Hose up the ass ain’t pretty, but I’m sure ol’ Dr. Stevens would disagree. Vance was winking wildly.

He mentioned guys like you, Tyson said. Called you serial testers.

Yeah, well, Dr. Knowitall Stevens can hardly tell his arse from his elbow.

Vance glanced around and when he settled back on Tyson the expression on his face was dire. I’m gonna tell you something. If you’re thinking of making a go, this ain’t no business for pussies. Two good buddies of mine got caught in that TGN1412 mess over in England. They’d done too much mixing, just gotten off more than a dozen studies between the two of them. Topped over fifty grand. Except one of them ended up a veggie burger and the other had his insides turned to mush. Vance paused, his eyes scrutinizing Tyson. I gotta say, call me crazy, but with the way your eyes are all puffed out and that pale complexion of yours, I’d swear you were a pro.

Tyson felt the heat rise up his neck and into his face. He had to admit there was something he found downright fascinating about a guy who made his living whoring his body out to pharmaceutical companies. As far as looking like a bag of shit went, that was something he couldn’t deny. The heavy sunken eyes, the pale, translucent skin. Running these last six months on a total of twelve hours of restless sleep would make anyone look like a Courtney Love stunt double. Tyson was midway through convincing himself that Vance had dropped one too many Noxil when he saw an image of himself at home in his bathroom, wrapped in a dirty housecoat, peeling open the medicine cabinet. Saw his hand, lined with thick bulbous veins, searching frantically through a veritable cityscape of pill bottles. One of them careened off the thin glass ledge and tumbled end over end until it connected with the bathroom sink and exploded, spraying tiny yellow capsules in all directions. He had been looking for a remedy for whatever disease or obscure sickness had been ailing him at the time. The memory couldn’t have been much more than a day old.

Mr. Barrett?

The voice was delicate and young and Tyson looked up, wondering for a moment if he was dreaming. The nurse was beautiful and she filled her uniform in all the right places. The hazy smile on Tyson’s face probably made him look medicated.

The nurse placed a small plastic container on the table next to him, undid the two latches and lifted the lid. Inside was something that looked like a stun gun.

What’s that for? Tyson asked. Her eyes were like two swimming pools filled with sapphires and he was having a hard time looking away.

This is your auto injector. It’s a spring-powered jet gun. The nurse removed a tiny vial of blue liquid from the pocket of her uniform and slid it into the back of the injector. Sit back and relax, this won’t hurt a bit.

Tyson did as he was told. The nurse placed the rounded tip against the flesh of his arm and pressed a button with her thumb. It made a whooshing that sounded a lot like his asthma pump. Something about that noise set him at ease.

His eyes focused on the shape next to him and found Vance looking on with an amused expression. Tyson thought of what Vance had just said about too much mixing and what it had done to those friends of his in England. The muscles in Tyson’s gut started to slowly curl into a tight fist. 

Maybe there was a bit of a pro in him after all.

Chapter 3

Sunnybrook Asylum, Upstate NY

The facility houses over five hundred patients, Dr. Kenneth Bowes was saying as the elevator doors slid open onto the eighth floor. He stepped out, followed closely by Dr. Elias Hunter. Peering down at the top of Dr. Bowes' balding head, Hunter was struck for the first time by how truly short the man was.

And tanned.

He’d heard about doctors like Bowes in med school. The kind who left every lunch hour for a quick round of golf. He was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t made a mistake accepting the job at Sunnybrook.

The eighth floor is where we keep patients who’ve been convicted of violent crimes.

You mean the ones who copped an insanity plea, Hunter added.

Dr. Bowes glanced back and his eyes were hard and gray. I mean the ones with great lawyers.

Hunter laughed even though he suspected Bowes hadn’t been joking.

I’d say only somewhere around half of the patients on this floor truly deserve to be here.

They turned a corner and headed down a dimly lit hallway. On either side, thick metal doors with tiny glass porthole windows stretched on for as far as the eye could see.

A woman shrieked from a room somewhere behind them and Hunter nearly jumped. But he didn’t. And that was the point. He caught himself because he knew very well that Dr. Bowes had his radar switched on, searching for just such a reaction. It was what this entire tour was really all about.

The goal wasn’t to show Hunter around the shadowy maze that was Sunnybrook Asylum. It was about checking him at the door for any signs of fear. Hunter knew from experience that if any of the doctors or even a staffer could see it, you could bet the nuts—patients, he corrected himself, patients—could smell it coming a mile away, just as they could probably smell Dr. Bowes' cheap cologne the minute he pulled into the staff parking lot.

In addition to taking care of Sunnybrook’s daily operations, I’m also the resident MD, Bowes was saying. So you can imagine how much I have on my plate. That was why we even gave your application a second look. We didn’t even care that you graduated from Albany Medical College. Hey, not everyone can afford John Hopkins. Bowes paused and Hunter wondered if the old man was taking a second to let the burn sink in. All that aside, it’ll be nice to have another physician on staff.

The two men were padding down the hallway at a decent clip when something in room H-16 caught Hunter’s attention. It looked like a woman surrounded by a battery of medical equipment. Perhaps that sort of thing might not look out of place in an ER, but here?

Who’s this? Hunter asked, reaching for the door handle. Dr. Bowes rushed forward to stop him. Hunter could see the white lines on Bowes' face where the golf course sun hadn’t quite been able to breach his wrinkled skin.

We never just enter a patient’s room without following the proper protocol, Dr. Hunter.

Bowes stepped up to the thick metal door and peered through the concave glass.

Room H-16 belongs to Brenda Barrett, he said with a hint of derision.

She’s not doing very well, is she?

Brenda’s been under constant medical supervision since she slipped into a coma last fall. No room in any of the proper big city facilities, so we’ve had to hang on to her.

How bad is she?

"Her coma’s about as deep as they come. Level three on the Glasgow scale, which I’m sure you learned at Albany, means she doesn’t do much more than just lie there. She wouldn’t even be breathing if it weren’t for all the